Two days ago we drove to a neighboring city to get my second COVID vaccination shot.  We wanted to take advantage of being in a city we aren’t often in to have my ring soldered so James took it to the jeweler while I was getting my vaccination.  When he picked me up, he shared with me the slightly more complicated steps we need to go through to get the work done, but my ring had been cleaned by the jeweler and took on a whole new shine and sparkle.  I’ll admit, I’m not great about cleaning my ring.  I’m great at wearing it, in fact, I wear it all the time; in the garden, making bread dough; putting on lotion – I love my ring dearly but I’m really bad at keeping it looking its best.  Since being professionally cleaned, however, it has caught my eye a hundred times during the day.  The glitter and shine catch my attention while I teach, write or email.  It’s hard to believe that something as simple and mundane as polish could make such a huge difference, but it really has.

This last year has been a rough one for us.  For all of us, collectively, but certainly for James and me as well.  We have been more hurtful to each other at times than we have ever been, but we have also never worked harder to love each other.  Last night, in a moment of sweet tenderness and gratitude, James surprised me with a trip to the lake.  We sat in the truck eating a picnic dinner he had made and packed himself, full of many of my favorites and several small details to make it just perfect.  

As we stood on the frozen mounds of sand and ice, we talked about the times we’ve been at the lake before.  We thought about Jacob, just across the water in Chicago.  James made me laugh, as he always does. And as the colors of the sky turned to a beautiful pink and orange, I commented that the sun sets every single day and yet here we were, far from the only ones on the frozen beach, standing in awe of this as though it were unique, a rare marvel to behold.  Like my ring.  Something I wear every day that I tend to take for granted, but a little polish makes me see it as new.

Every single day we have the chance to make something special.  To treasure something mundane.  To look at something so banal and find inspiration, to find hope.  Every day we have the opportunity to make the ordinary extraordinary. And it doesn’t have to take much to put a little sparkle back into our lives.  A little polish, a little picnic dinner, a little thing like a sunset to fall in love again.  I am blessed by these little things.

Today, we set the new nesting boxes in the coop to let The Girls get used to them before we took down the old ones (can I even call them old?) and put these up on the wall. At first, Large Dark Wooden New Thing was to be avoided and feared, but eventually the hens all came over to have a peek and investigate.

While I am giddy with the new boxes, and The Girls seem to be happy with them as well (so far), even James was thrilled to cross something off his eventual “to do” list. I spent some time out in the coop listening to the chooks. Seems like there was much to be said about the new set-up. I wish I knew the history of this piece, or that I could have known the previous owner, but regardless, all the residents of The Sky is Falling Inn will be blessed by extra boxes. And happy chickens are always a blessed little thing.

Things are getting pretty serious between James and me. I cleaned out three drawers and a bathroom cabinet for him to use. We’re buying a new bed together and cleaned out a closet to make room.

For his mom.

Truth is, we don’t know if or when she is moving in, or if or when she is just coming to stay for awhile. While we have been anticipating all these logistics, since Henry’s passing, it is now the reality and we are trying to navigate them in earnest.

The logistics raise so many questions and so many concerns and none have a perfect solution. His mom is still sharp as a tack, or as much as any 91 year old woman can be. She still lives in the home she shared with Henry for the past twenty some years. But the only relative close by is Henry’s son and while he’s willing and usually able to check in on her, that’s a difficult arrangement for her own children to feel comfortable with. She now has an emergency alert necklace, but this woman never slows down and is just stubborn enough to decide to do something “real quick” that may end up with a severe injury and no one to know for quite some time.

But the idea of moving her here or to assisted living just to ease our minds, while perhaps justifiable, doesn’t seem fair. She’d leave her town, her church, her doctor, her hairdresser – all things very important to her.

We aren’t sure of the “right” answer, or even if there is anything more than just a good compromise to be worked out. So, for now, James will continue to go up there as often as he can and spend time with her. And we will get our home ready to accommodate her for however long she comes to visit or stay. And we will do everything possible to balance worry with understanding, patience with concern, need with love. But most of all, I will be grateful for a husband who loves his mother dearly and who will do whatever needs to be done to make her remaining years the very best they can be. And I will be grateful that we have the means and the home to make any of this possible. So if it means swapping out our bedroom for the master so she can have more room and a more private bath area, so be it. If it means getting creative about how we share dresser and closet space, so be it. If it means that James and I will share a bathroom for the first time in nearly six year, so be it – I’ll even wash my toothpaste spit out of the sink each and every time. If it means doing all of this even if she only comes to visit briefly, so be it. We both know how loved we are by our parents and how much they have influenced the people we have become. They raised us to do the right thing, whatever that may end up being.

We have been blessed by loving families. We hope to continue to bless our families in any little way that we can.

It’s moving day for the kid. Not quite 25 years old and he’s moving to Chicago. He already started his new job virtually a couple weeks ago, so he’s already familiar with that, but the apartment they are renting was leased after only seeing a video. The pandemic has changed so many parts of our lives, even viewing prospective living arrangements. So today, the moving truck arrives in Lansing and after the load-up, it will move Jacob and his girlfriend to their new home.

He has needed exactly nothing from me during this process. From job search, to interviews, to relocating, he has needed nothing. And to be completely honest, the fact is, there’s absolutely nothing I would have done differently or advised him against doing. They thoroughly researched and thought about potential jobs and this particular offer. They’ve gone over their budget numerous times. She has enough saved for her to job hunt for awhile to find something that truly lights her up and uses her talents. While they could have afforded it, they decided the responsible thing was to sell the Tesla since they won’t be driving nearly so much and to put that money aside. They took advantage of the moving stipend from the company and hired movers instead of pocketing the extra cash and trying to navigate downtown Chicago with a large moving van – even though they would have had plenty of help to unload. They have made every decision carefully and thoughtfully and responsibly. It turns out, they are adulting very, very well.

Which is great and awesome and fantastic and everything you dream of as a parent. But it also feels very weird. To be the mom but not be needed. For anything.

It isn’t the first time. Let’s be real. Jacob has been adulting since he was about six. But if he (and the girl) can navigate a move like this and a job change such as this in the middle of a global pandemic, I’m not sure what they couldn’t handle. So, while I wish I could be there to help unpack the dishes, or to run to the store to help stock the fridge, or even to take the pooch for a walk while they get a few things set up, I will instead be home, praying that everything goes as well as moving ever can. Praying for calm nerves and kindness to rule the day even when tempers get hot and things don’t go as planned. But mostly, I will pray that I might soon get to visit my amazing adult son and his girl in their new surroundings and celebrate all they’ve accomplished to get there.

I am blessed by the fact that to say “my adult children” isn’t an oxymoron in my world. It is just a reflection of the truth sidled up against my heartstrings. These very adult children are a blessing today and every day. Happy Moving Day Jacob and Carissa!

He was 94, the father of seven and the love of my mother-in-law’s life. A second marriage for both, they met at the cemetery, each visiting the headstones of their first spouse. He was sharp as a tack, well-read, wise beyond words and one of the kindest people you could ever have the honor of knowing.

I met Henry about a decade ago. I loved his sense of humor. James and I were just dating then, but meeting his mom and Henry only made me love James more. They were everything you hoped an old married couple would be. They finished each other’s sentences; conferred with each other before making a decision, no matter how small; and they spent all day, every day, together. Happily.

Over the years, I was routinely amazed at all that Henry knew. Not just what he knew, but what he had experienced in his lifetime, what he had accomplished, what he had learned. Every time we visited a new book (or three) would be on the stand by his chair in the living room. Never once was it a light read. Almost always it was political. Sometimes a biography or historical novel. He built ships. Scaled replicas of the great ones. War ships. The Titanic. Piece by tiny piece, he spent years crafting, painting, gluing and positioning. He built anything he needed. A gopher trap? He built one. Need a hose reel that will hook onto the tractor? He built one. Need a pulley system to run tubing in the pole barn? Any need they had, Henry would research, plan and solve on his own. We always went north with questions in mind. Any issues we ran into on the farm were questions Henry would already know how to solve. Too many conversations to count around here ended with, “We’ll ask Henry. He’ll know.”

Having been raised and lived through decades upon decades of necessity, he knew farming as though he’d never left the fields. He surely thought we were crazy for getting cows “just for fun” but he never said as much to us. He loved to hear about each one of them, especially Elliott, whom he called, “Scotty”. He shook his head and chuckled when he asked about what kinds of chickens I had ordered last year. He wanted to know if I had layers or meat chickens and I went on and on about each of the 8 breeds I had picked out for their beauty or egg color. Even during our last conversation he was still asking me about my chickens. He delighted in the home-grown things we would bring him. He requested our homemade bread, homemade grape jelly and James’ maple syrup. He also loved the cookies we took up with us and had one a day for breakfast with coffee for as long as they lasted. He cooked us something different every time we went up there and could remember what he had made and what he still wanted to prepare the next time.

This man, this wealth of knowledge more significant than the set of encyclopedias from my childhood; this remarkable, easy-going man became the loving father my husband never had growing up. He was quick with compliments, hugs and “I love you’s”. He loved us as if we were one of his own. And we, in turn loved him.

And today, after months of deteriorating, after several weeks of hospice and round-the-clock care by family, this morning, surrounded by all of his children, he asked for a cup of coffee, even though he couldn’t begin to drink it. And he told his wife that he wished she were going with him and then, when every one left the room, he quietly passed away. Just as Henry would. Never wanting to be a bother.

After all the cancer has put him through during the last several months, this should feel like relief. After all the stress that James’ mom has been though, all the worrying, this should feel like a slow exhale. After 94 years of a life lived in tough, hard times, staying sharp to the very end, this should feel like a life to be celebrated. And it will be.

But, for today, my heart aches. I am so deeply sad. I am more heartbroken that seems reasonable for a man I was related to only through two marriages. But I loved Henry. And I love the way he loved my husband. Like one of his own.

And this is no small thing. To be loved by Henry is a very big blessing indeed.

He is already so deeply missed.

Other than back and forth to school, I don’t go anywhere. Even at school, I see about three adults every day (thank you, COVID) and so every couple of weeks, James knows that I get itchy to get out of the house and do something. Only there’s just so much nothing to do. The best we tend to conjure up is to run errands. I use the term “run errands” quite loosely as our marriage combined a middle child with a youngest and so our errands generally have no list, rarely even have a direction and seldom accomplish whatever we set out to do (my dad is so disappointed in me right now). But it’s a chance for me to ride in the passenger seat, to comment on things along the way, to sing crazy songs together and to converse about anything but school for a change.

James knows this. He knows that it’s never about the destination or crossing things off a list (now even my sister is disappointed in me). He knows that I have no set plan when we leave the house other than to leave.the.house. And so he does everything he can to make running errands fun. He uses props in stores to serenade me. He puts on crazy hats or glasses and acts like a clown. He will spell things with decorative letters. He will pose with enormous stuffed sloths or stand up cut-outs of Paula Dean. He will make snarky comments about what we should buy (usually suggesting all the things his mom keeps trying to give us). He will suggest that I buy slippers just so Trudy can bury them in the back yard. In short, he spends the entire time making me laugh.

We set out today with gift cards in hand and an agenda that included getting roma tomato seeds and bird seed, and that was literally it. He entertained me in each store we browsed and never said a word when we left empty-handed. I’m sure there’s a million things he could have been doing out in his barn. I’m sure he could have happily browsed for tools or tools or maybe even some tools, but he wandered around with me wherever I went and did his best to embarass me (and our nephew. Poor kid. He never should have gotten a job at Menard’s. Or he should pay his mom off to not tell James when he is working.)

Today, in the middle of Kohl’s, he proposed. Sort of. It was a beautiful ring, I have to admit. He does have remarkable taste.

And to this man who knows just when I need it and just how to make me laugh, I would have said yes a thousand times over. And I even would have worn that tacky ring. Because a spouse that makes you laugh is a blessed thing indeed.

I may have called her a “piggly-wig” as she meowed to me at the stairs. Assuming she was upset about an empty food container, I continued my lecture as I followed her downstairs, letting her know that she was one of the few unaffected by the global pandemic and that while I understood it was winter, that was no reason to eat her entire container of food quite that quickly. Charlotte ignored the speech, as felines are prone to do. She led me down the stairs and to the gate that separates the front room from the rest of the unfinished basement, where her food, water and litter box are kept. And although it’s set up for her to easily go under, she stopped at the gate and just looked at me as if to make sure I was done with the lecture. I opened the gate and stepped around to turn on the light noticing Charlotte hadn’t moved far from the gate herself. With the light on, I realized why. There was water everywhere.

We only had a few wet things, which we set up on boards to dry. Nothing major was damaged and the shop vac made clean up a breeze (I say as if I had anything to do with it. James did it all and assured me he didn’t need any help.)

Charlotte might drive us crazy with her in-out-in-out-in-out indecisiveness, but saving us a major mess earns her all kinds of rights to change her mind and come and go as she pleases for awhile. (I also shared a bit of cheese with her last night. I’m not sure she’s forgiven me for calling her a piggly-wig, but cheese always helps.) She knew something wasn’t right and she sat patiently on the steps and meowed until I was willing to follow her and see, all the while enduring insults about her misjudged eating habits.

I hope to never forget the moment in 2009, when I sat in a first grade classroom with an African-American 6-year old on the floor next to me as we watched the Presidential Inauguration. Looking at the TV screen, seeing all the important-looking people in suits and ties, he eagerly whispered to me, “Which one is the President?” And that day, as Barack Obama took the oath of office, I got to say to this precious child, “The one who looks like you.”

It was no small thing then. I cried. I was so deeply and profoundly moved by what our nation had accomplished that day. I was so excited for this small child to see someone who looked like him leading our nation.

Likewise today, I couldn’t contain myself. There is something palpable when you are around children during historical moments. They more than likely have little to no idea what the significance is of the events around them (sometimes for the better) but when you are in the presence of children, and in the moment of historical significance, I find it impossible to not be deeply moved.

Today, my excitement overflowed. We were able to watch the swearing in of both President Biden and Vice President Harris with my homeroom today. We listened to President Biden’s speech, to Lady Gaga singing the anthem, and J. Lo singing God Bless America. We talked about how all of these people – politicians, leaders, singers, performers, security personnel – every one of them had been in fourth grade at some point. Learning fractions. Taking spelling tests. Trying to better understand what they were reading. And right before recess, we got to hear Garth Brooks sing Amazing Grace. How sweet the sound, indeed. I recalled for all four of my classes that day in 2009 and how I felt when President Obama took office. Today, I looked at the faces 10 year olds and said, “Today, it’s about the girls.” We talked about Kamala Harris. We spoke of the significance of all that she represents. But we also spoke about how President Biden is older, and how Barack Obama was so much younger but that didn’t impact their abilities to be President. We spoke about all kinds of different leaders and how each and every one was different. And we celebrated the fact that it doesn’t matter who you are, what gender you are, what color you are, what age you are, or any other factor. “Here, in America”, I said, “YOU can do and be anything!”

I know we aren’t truly there yet. I know that the color of skin does matter. I know that age and gender and race and religion and Lord only knows what all else do matter so many times when they shouldn’t. I know this. But for one moment today, in the presence of our future generation, I wanted to be sure that they believed it didn’t. I wanted every girl in every class to see Kamala and know that there are no limits to what each of them might do. I wanted to see our nation with rose-colored glasses, and to celebrate all the hope and all the optimism we can muster during ceremonial times like today.

President Biden got to work within a few short hours of his swearing in. There is, after all, much to be done. But for a moment, today, in Room 15, in a class of girls and boys; children of Color and those that are White, children who are from all socio-economic walks, various religions, English-language learners, some with learning disabilities – every single child unique – for a moment, I saw America as she was meant to be. I hope that today, every child in my classroom saw what I saw up on the steps of the Capitol – someone just like me. United. Excited. Hopeful.

Today I watched history through the eyes of 10-year olds and I was profoundly blessed by this not-so-little thing.

I’m not about to complain about winter thus far. Other than not having anywhere to go or being able to see anyone, we at least haven’t had snow and for southwest Michigan, that is something to rejoice in. That just turned six months of snow into four, which is a huge win in my book, being the snow-hater that I am.

For me, winter is just my time to prep for spring. My winter hobbies are actually spring planning, which mainly involves redesigning the garden and shifting around some perennials in flower beds. But this year, I’ve succumbed to chicken math. I was warned about this when we built the coop last year. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Much like the garden that started with berries and asparagus and grew to include over 25 raised beds…well, chicken math has become my new winter hobby.

Chicken math goes something like this. Last year, I wanted 4 or 5 hens. There was an 8 chick minimum on orders at the time and by a weird series of events, I ended up accidentally ordering nine. I tried in earnest to rid myself of a few, but only succeeded in getting rid of one. And then we found out we had a rooster. Lord bless Harper, but we were glad to find him a new home as well. So we went from 4 or 5 to 9 then to 8 and finally we’ve rested at 7. Seven seemed like a great number for chickens. The sign outside my coop still says “The Crazy Eight” but that hasn’t bothered me as much I thought it would. The trouble is, when you hang around with chickens, you begin to want more. And more.

So, chicken math has resulted in me ordering a few more chickie babies to arrive in spring. It was sooo much fun picking out new breeds for our flock! Varying egg and feather colors, I had an actual blast researching chickens and deciding on our new additions. Ordering was a bit stressful but that was due to glitches in the hatchery’s website that kept taking my selections out of my “cart”, but it eventually was resolved and I was able to order exactly the chicks I wanted. All six of them. Sigh.

So, 4-5 became 9, which became 8 and then 7 but will now become 13. Yep. Chicken math. I figure even if we end up with another rooster (we’d better not) we will still have a happy dozen.

And now I wait. Until the first week in April when my chicks will arrive. But I have something to keep me busy in addition to redesigning the garden and thinking about moving perennials around…I have six chickens to name!! 🙂 And those are six blessed little things!